


The Charade of the Season

by CarryOn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drama, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-23
Updated: 2010-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-12 20:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarryOn/pseuds/CarryOn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode 1.07. The boys are on the run from John until Sam decides to stop their aimless retreat in order to look into a case. A cat and mouse game begins in which is clear who's the cat and who are the mice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Carry On...a Supernatural Virtual Season

Episode 7: Charade of the Season

Authors: Annj and Bayre

Disclaimer: We don't own Supernatural or it's characters, basically any characters familiar from the show. They are properties of the WB, CW and Eric Kripke.

A/N: Carry On...A Supernatural Virtual Season picks up at the end of All Hell Breaks Loose part one and then ventures on with a what if scenario that takes the Winchester brothers through heaven and hell while fighting to save the remnants of their splintered family. See our bio page for more information.

Episode Summary: The boys are on the run from John until Sam decides to stop their aimless retreat in order to look into a case of a murdered 17-year old babysitter. Dean merely plays along to humour Sam but less than agrees to it. He's even less thrilled when John seems to have caught up with them. A cat and mouse game begins in which is clear who's the cat and who are the mice.

A/N: We apologize for the issues in the original post. It should be fixed now.

 **PART ONE**

With the side of her foot she pushed the refrigerator closed. The heavy door shut smoothly, some bottles inside rattling with the force of it and the large cooling device started ticking slightly.

The kitchen was clean. The marbled surfaces gleamed with an unnatural shimmer. They did not give the impression of ever having been used.

The lights were turned on, reflecting off the metallic counter and the kitchenware was perfectly arranged. Actually, the whole house was more like a well preserved stage than a place for children.

Natasha had gotten the babysitting job a few weeks ago after her mother had met the "nice politician with the poor little kids who don't have a mommy" and she regretted saying yes ever since. On the other hand, the money was good, the beer was cold and getting the kids out of her way was easier than she had anticipated.

With the bottle in her hand she walked towards the back door, staring out the spotless windows at the spacious veranda holding beach chairs and a patio umbrella. A swimming pool illuminated from below was next to a young oak. The surface of the water unmoving and twinkling. Behind it loomed the high wall with branches of a huge weeping willow hanging over it like anchors grabbing for something to hold on.

Natasha brought the bottle to her lips, took a deep gulp and grimaced.

"Yuck!"

But being a seventeen-year-old rebel meant you'd have to make sacrifices. Even if it tasted like piss.

From the room above trampling sounds could be heard and she yelled "Hey, stop running around. It's almost ten. Didn't I tell you to frigging go to sleep half an hour ago?"

On the verge of getting upstairs and having another discussion with the two boys she stopped when her cell phone rang loudly and she fumbled for it in her back pocket, the bottle in her left hand slipping from wet fingers. The crashing sound made her jump in distress and she all but shouted into the phone.

"Fu... what?"

 _"Whoa, sugar. No need to get all cranky with me. Is it that time of a month, or what?"_ She relaxed a little and made a step over the broken glass on the floor to reach for the paper towels.

"Shut up, idiot!" She hissed. "I dropped the damn beer bottle because of your obnoxious ringing."

The voice on the phone chuckled, making Natasha roll her eyes. "That's not funny. The stuff stinks like shit."

 _"Yeah, and you wanted to drink it."_

"Shut up!"

Another loud sound came from somewhere in the house. And it was a big house. The phone still held in one hand, the paper towels in the other she shouted towards the stairs leading upstairs into the room where her wards were supposed to be asleep and not getting in her way. "You two morons. Stop messing around or I'll put cleaner in your dinner."

Another chuckle from the phone and grumbling she trotted back into the kitchen. The puddle was getting wider by the seconds, the broken glass like icebergs in a see of alcohol and she made another grimace. Tiny rivulets of beer were spreading all over, filling the gouges between the unblemished tiles. She'd sooo be in trouble if she didn't get the smell out of the kitchen before the boys' father came home.

"Damn!" she said to no one in particular and was surprised when her boyfriend was still on the phone.

 _"I love it when you curse. Should I come over and be a bad boy so you can curse some more?"_

"I'd love to but I think the big man is gonna be home soon."

Getting down on her knees she began to collect the large pieces of glass before wiping the fluid away. The smell was bitter in her nostrils, her stomach recoiling in disgust when yet another sound, this time closer, reached her ears. A screeching sound, like a chair being hauled over the floor made her stop.

"Hey, Greg. Can I call you back? I think these dim-witted boys are in for more trouble than I am."

Without waiting for an answer she put the cell on the counter, slowly getting up and not making any sound. If she was about to catch the boys red-handed she did not want to alert them.

Hastily, she took off her shoes and tiptoed back into the long hallway. Not hearing anything but her own breathing she took some more steps, first glancing to her left into the living room, then to her right into the dining room. Wrinkling her nose, she needed a few seconds before recognizing a different smell than the stale one from the beer lingering in the air. Like rotten eggs.

"Uaah, that's disgusting."

She put a hand over her nose and walked on, this time less careful.

"What the hell did you do?" The boys were not in sight, yet she had no doubt they had cooked this up for her. Though, she had to admit, that'd be a first. "Remember the cleaner in your dinner?" she added just for good measure but there was no response. No giggling, no snorting. Just the sickening odor of decay and sulfur.

 _Scrunch!_

Definitely the sound of a foot, crushing onto the glass in the kitchen.

She turned around and headed back to the kitchen, leaving wet footprints that were quickly fading. She suddenly realized, she had not made sure the alarm system was turned on. Even though the neighborhood was one of the safest in the whole city, Carver had insisted on having it turned on all the time.

She sneaked closer, damning the cell she had left on the counter. She could see it resting on its given place, the display blinking wildly but not making any sounds. Had she maybe turned off the sound?

No, it had rang only minutes ago when Greg... "Greg! You asshole! If that's you..."

She quickened her steps, expecting to find her stupid boyfriend standing behind the door, smirking. But it was not her boyfriend, as it turned out.

"Who...?" was the last word she ever spoke.

Meanwhile, a fourteen year old boy frantically ran back up the stairs, grabbed his little brother's hand and pulled him into the assumed safety of the closet.

They didn't move when the door to their room opened.

They didn't move when the stranger-hands and clothes covered with their baby-sitter's blood and intestines-stood motionless in front of the closet staring at them through the small gap between frame and door.

They didn't dare to move when the man's footsteps faded again a few minutes later.

-o-

 _Two days later, Charade, Ohio_

The weather mirrored his mood. Cold and grey, with clouds hanging low and pressing hard against the landscape. A few lost raindrops were landing on the windshield and Dean activated the wipers.

Sam stared at the large pack of paper on his knees and realized it could have been written in Chinese and he wouldn't have noticed. He tried to read the first sentence for the sixth time but his eyes wouldn't even focus.

"You've been staring at the same piece of paper for ages. You should know it by heart already." Dean joked, but the humor in voice quickly turned into frustration.

Sam rotated his head a few times before answering, his throat still sore from...

Quickly, he pressed his eyes shut, trying to push away the image of his father's amused expression while closing off his windpipe with invisible fists.

"Maybe you should turn it around."

"What?" Sam's eyes snapped back open.

"The paper. Maybe you should turn it around."

Sure, Sam hadn't had a lot of sleep the last few days but this was ridiculous. His head felt empty... or crowded. The perception of his surroundings changed every few seconds and he almost felt like crawling in the back seat to get some shut eye.

"Dude!"

"What, Dean?"

"You're holding it upside down! Did they teach you how to read like this at Stanford, too?"

His brother took his right hand from the steering wheel and grabbed the whole folder of print-outs Sam had collected over the last few days.

"Dean, give it back..." he argued but it was too late. His older brother's face scrunched up, first in confusion, then anger.

"What is this?"

Sam huffed. "Information, what else?"

"About what? I thought you were researching the seals. Don't you think that should be our first priority?" Dean's eyes were fixed on the print-out Sam had tried to study. He had found some philosophical facts about Hell in one of Bobby's old books and had decided to give it a try. It was the only thing he'd found out about their father - his time in hell. Actually, he had no idea what he was looking for. It was hard to Google "How my Dad turned evil after spending a hundred years in Hell".

Sure, Sam had asked Dean again and again what exactly had happened after he'd lost consciousness in that old warehouse-very much to Dean's dismay-but Dean had begun to shut down. Acted, like he didn't hear a word Sam was saying and, to put it mildly, it was driving Sam up the wall. And since "Hell" was the only helpful information he'd gotten out of his brother. The damn topic was more extensive than a freaking ocean.

Ever since their encounter with John Winchester an uncomfortable undertone had crept into the brothers' life. It was like they were strangers. They were talking with each other but at the same time talking past each other. Tiptoe-ing around the Big Question. The one constant that had once glued them together. Had made them a family. The common denominator that had been their connection to what should have been a normal life.

Their father and what had become of him.

"I was just..."

With a surprising force that made Sam jump in his seat Dean hit his hand against the steering wheel. The following silence was almost unbearable and Sam was the first to clear his throat.

"Dean, you know we have to..."

"Stop it, Sammy!" The words were hard to understand since Dean had his teeth gritted so tight Sam could hear them rub against each other. "No, Dad should not be our priority right now."

Sam snorted. "Don't tell me you're following his orders."

"Sammy..."

Another round of silence ensued as Dean's anger deflated suddenly, leaving him tired and drained. He settled into the backrest to get comfortable while Sam gathered the papers and stuffed them into the folder.

A large sign welcomed them to Charade, Ohio and Sam put the documents into his backpack, not wanting to agitate Dean even further with a fruitless research that would drive Sam crazy one way or another.

"You know, you'll have to talk to me at one point, Dean," he finally said, keeping his voice calm but determined. "I need to know what's going on."

Dean didn't answer.

Fine. Two could play that game just as well.

Strained silence was becoming the new constant in their life.

-o-

The town they were driving through was a typical middle class town in the suburban area of Charade. Houses, three floors at the most. Broad streets, bright ads in the shop windows and a park on almost every corner with colorful monkey bars and healthy looking trees that offered shade in the warm summer months.

The leaves were already starting to flee the oncoming winter and formed large mountains for children to run through.

It was past five pm when Dean finally turned off the road and stopped in a small parking lot in front of a cozy looking bed and breakfast, not their usual kind of night's refuge.

Confused, Sam raised his eyebrow. His "What are we doing here?" was answered by a snort when Dean got out of the car, hoisted the trunk open and got his and Sam's stuff out.

"What do you think we're doing here? It's a motel."

"Yeah," Sam replied with a duh-face. "A motel with clean sheets and warm water for two showers. What's wrong? Am I dying?... Again?" Bad joke, but Sam didn't care. Anything to get a reaction from Dean.

"Nothing's wrong," Dean answered, his bad temper still vivid enough to stop any smartass answer lying on Sam's mouth. Quietly, Sam followed his older brother into the reception area, where an old lady with teeth more yellow than Azazel's eyes greeted them exuberantly and put a key with a faded red eleven on the tag in Dean's hand.

The rooms were spacious even though Sam felt immediately cramped. Heavy maroon colored drapes were hanging at the window and the wallpaper was a flowery disaster that belonged into a museum not a motel room.

"Nice!" Dean said with a shrug and dropped his stuff on the first bed.

"Sure, if you've served in World War One, are a hundred years old and _blind_ ," Sam countered, still sulking about the way Dean was dismissing him. Without further comment Dean started to put salt lines on the window ledge as well as in front of the doors, obviously not meaning to leave the room anytime soon. Which was not what Sam had expected.

"Dude!"

"What?" Dean replied.

"We haven't even eaten."

"So what? We're not going to die of starvation anytime soon."

That was it! Dean not wanting to eat after a fourteen hour drive through two states? That meant apocalypses, as in plural.

He hadn't meant to get so loud when the words left his mouth. "What the hell is wrong with you, Dean? You're acting as if ... as if... I don't even know what. What happened when I was unconscious. What did Dad tell you?"

"He's not our DAD! Dad would've never..." If Dean had had the chance to punctuate his outburst with another blow to the steering wheel, he'd have done it but halfway in the sentence the words left him, the memory of his father squeezing the air out of his brother with a sadistic smile on his lips.

Yes, Dean, what would Dad never have done? Threaten his sons' lives? Kill Sammy? Turn into a murderer?

Turned out, his father had done a lot of things Dean would've never thought possible.

"He's our father. And he's a murderer, Dean. He's dangerous. We have a responsi..."

"Shut up, Sam!"

"No!" Sam got up from his place on the edge of the bed, using his height to support his opinion. "I want to know what's going on. And don't tell me, nothing's wrong." He started to pace without letting Dean out his sight. "Ever since we met Dad..."

"He's not..."

 _Sure Dean, who are you kidding?_

Sam ignored him. "... you're acting like he's turned into the devil himself. There's got to be a way to find out exactly what happened. We could try another exorcism. Or a summoning. He's still our father and we are responsible for what harm he's causing. We need to stop him. People are dying because of him."

"Don't you dare to blame him." Dean interrupted. "This _thing_ isn't Dad. Dad loved us. Everything he did... he did for us. And now he's dead... for us.."

"I don't blame him, Dean. I'm not saying this is his _fault_. But we can't allow him to be running free. The thing that's walking around looking like him IS him, thinks like him, knows everything Dad knows. It's not just the familiar face that scares me. It's DAD! And if there's one thing we learned from Dad it's not to do things by halves. There's more. And we have to stop..."

"Shut up!" Dean shouted one last time before dropping on the bed. He arranged the pillow, grabbed the remote and when the TV came to life he pumped up the volume to finish this discussion once and for all. "Dad'd want us to get as much space as possible between that thing and us. And that's what I intend to do."

 _See, Dean? I knew you were my good little soldier._

There it was again. The new constant. The uncomfortable silence between them.

Sam could feel the blood rush in his veins. His breathing was erratic but there was no more talking to do. Dean had shut down again, his forefinger listlessly tapping on the buttons, switching channels like he wanted to catch as many bad television shows as possible in one minute.

-o-

The Late Night News was flickering soundlessly over the screen and Sam rubbed his gritty eyes, lifting his head from the worn pages of an old book about biblical signs when the headlines of the current topic got his attention.

"Gruesome murder in a loca politician's home…"

The screen showed the face of a charismatic man in his late thirties with an already receding hairline showing the first signs of grey. He was clean-shaven, his teeth sparkled white when he spoke and his whole demeanor radiated a professionalism that made it clear he was used to being on TV in the middle of an important story. He smiled winningly after he was asked a question and if there hadn't been a ticker below his smiling visage Sam would've assumed he was talking about the weather or a new political strategy.

In the background of the scene Sam could see half the facade of a big house. White brick and white columns decorated the entrance area of the building that looked like someone's home, probably the man's. Next to it Sam recognized two boys standing rather forlornly together like they had no where else to be. The older one, a young teenager of maybe thirteen or fourteen years, had his arm protectively around the younger one, who was pressing what looked like an action figure against his chest.

It looked familiar and the unexpected wave of deja vu hit Sam with a power that would have brought him to his knees if he were standing. Not knowing why the image had such an effect on him, a suppressed sound of surprise came over his lips drowning Dean's light snoring and quickly he reached for the remote control in Dean's slack hands.

"Hmuh, I'm watch'ng th's," Dean protested sleepily, blinking his eyes open.

"Of course you are," Sam retorted and turned on the volume.

"... does not have clues about the identity of the murderer or why the young woman was the victim," the off-screen female voice explained in a bored tone. "A homicide in the heat of the moment can't be ruled out entirely but the investigations are only beginning. Jeffrey Carver's sons reportedly did not see the culprit."

The scene changed and now the two boys were shown directly, still holding each other.

"Really, I swear, it was a monster," the smaller one explained with such fervor that it made the interviewer raise his eyebrow and Sam numb to the bones.

"Thank you, Melanie, for the news. Now let's get back to the weather..."

Sam pushed the mute button and turned towards the laptop, starting to type viciously and seconds later seven hundred and twenty two hits concerning Jeffrey Carver popped up on screen.

"Don't you even think about it."

Looked like Dean was awake after all, Sam thought but he didn't avert his eyes from the screen filled with information about the politician.

"About what?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about." Dean's voice was low, yet hard. "We're not going to clean up other people's mess while standing in our own, knee deep. You understand?"

But for Sam, the next step was already decided.

-o-

The house in front of Sam was the same as in the news the night before. The brick and the columns. The neat rows of bushes planted directly next to the three steps of the stair. The archway leading towards the door alone looked bigger than some of the motels Sam and Dean had lived in. The wood shone freshly polished and the doorknob actually twinkled like the gold teeth of a gangster rapper.

To say Dean was feeling uncomfortable would have been the understatement of the century. Keeping his eyes open and his fingers close to the waistband where he was hiding his forty-five he let his gaze sweep over the are area coming to rest at the far side of the estate where someone was busy raking the leaves from the well-groomed lawn. Someone with dark hair, who seemed to notice the stares Dean was giving him.

Slowly he turned around, the familiar gaze finding Dean's and he winked with a grin, the dimpled chin even visible from this distance

Dean stopped short, his heart missing a few beats and he reached for the gun when Sam's voice made his head swirl around.

"Dean, you coming?"

Quickly, he looked back at the man working in the garden and ... hadn't the man been larger only seconds ago? Hadn't he worn a different jacket? Hadn't he looked like someone Dean had known his whole life? He had, Dean was sure. Dean could have sworn the man had looked like his father. Confusion and adrenalin made Dean's head swim and his ears rang with the whispering of... something. It sounded like the blood rushing in his ears but more dully. Like he had water in his ears.

"Do you hear that?" Dean asked, tilting his head a little to wriggle his finger in his ear.

"Hear what?"

"Forget it!" Angry to have made such a scene Dean strode on. "Let's get this over with."

Sam followed quickly and only caught up with him after Dean had pressed a button and behind the door echoed the ridiculous _dingeling_ of the bell. They could hear a voice, loud and authoritative, before the door opened and were greeted by the man they had seen on the TV the night before.

"Mr. Carver, I'm-"

"... late!" The man bellowed angrily.

Sam and Dean looked at each other, perplexed.

"We... excuse me?" Dean replied.

"I have an appointment in..." The man took an impatient look at his wrist watch. "Well... twenty minutes ago." During the last words his voice rose even louder but he stopped his agitated movements, his jacket slung over his left arm, and squinted warily.

Dean resisted the urge to shrink and straightened up.

"I had expected you much earlier," Carver scolded. "The agency assured me you'd be here at nine-thirty am sharp. Now it's nine-forty-one. I expect punctuality from my staff."

"Agency?" Sam repeated whereas Dean asked, appalled, "Staff?"

"Yes. By the way, I suppose you are the one responsible for the security?" Carver asked, eyeing Dean conspicuously. Then huffed. "... Not that we need it of course. But my incompetent advisor holds the opinion that I should take special precautions regarding the..." His face twisted irritatedly. "... _incident_. I suppose you're well informed about it?" The politician looked sharply at Dean, then-with a rather disbelieving glance-he studied Sam as if trying to figure out how he was fitting into the Mary Poppins scheme. He was already halfway out of the door when he turned. "Oh...uhm..."

Dean almost shrunk away, expecting their bluffs to be called.

"What was your name again?" Carver wanted to know, squinting his eyes again.

Gulping, Dean answered with the first name that came to his mind. "Waters, Roger Waters." Behind his back he could almost hear Sam rolling his eyes about the choice of the name and resisted the urge to kick his younger brother in the shin. Nevertheless, the answer seemed to meet the man's demands and he nodded.

"Fine, Mr. Waters." Then, with an even more mandatory tone in his voice Carver yelled back into the house. "Behave, boys!"

With these words he ascended the few steps down to a waiting car and got into the backseat. He vanished behind the darkened windows leaving behind Sam and Dean who were staring at each other in utter perplexity.

"That was weird," Sam announced and shrugged his shoulders.

"Ya think?"

The door to the house was still standing wide open and gave view to a spacious hallway, from which three arches were leading into a living room, a dining room and, in the back of the long corridor, the kitchen. A red-carpeted stairway was leading into the upper parts of the house. In the opening to the kitchen two boys were standing warily. The smaller one peeping from behind the larger one's back, an action figure pressed against his side.

"So," the older one asked, obviously not happy about the development. "You're our new babysitters, huh?"


	2. The Charade of the Season Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **PART TWO**

**PART TWO**

Dean glanced back at Sam, daring him to make fun of his choice of names out loud and shouldered his way into the house. Sam gave him a lopsided grin, shrugged, shook his head a bit and followed him into the house, looking around as he walked.

Nodding to the two boys, and yeah, okay maybe they did remind him _slightly_ of him and Sam. Very slightly. Sam was a sap, really there was barely any similarities at all. Dean was barely aware of his brother and the two boys carrying on a conversation, the sounds floated at him, but he didn't register the words.

Ignoring the annoyed looks Sam was giving him, Dean paced through the rooms of the house, checking inside larger closets and cupboards. The two boys with Sam in tow headed for the farthest room, a living room decked out with couches and the largest wide screen TV Dean had ever seen. Seriously, the thing was scary; people were bigger than life sized on that screen.

Dean froze, squinting at the dark screen, the TV was off, but he was sure he'd seen someone's reflection, someone standing just outside. Twisting on his heels, Dean looked out the sliding glass doors, no one was there.

Sam tilted his head, narrowed his eyes and glared, voice stuttering a few times before his nostrils flared for a second and he kept on talking. "My brother, _Roger_ , and I'm Sam."

"Huh?" Dean turned his attention from the window to Sam and the boys. "Yeah, I'm Roger." When the older of the two scrunched his nose, Dean straightened, crossed both arms over his chest and quirked an eyebrow. "Problem?"

"N-no, sir."

"So, what happened to your previous sitter?" Sam asked, tapping the older boy on the arm.

The kid turned to Sam, gaze raking up and down his brother for a few seconds before teenage attitude came bouncing out full force. "Aren't you guys a little old to be babysitters?"

Sam's eyebrows pulled together and he looked over at Dean, silently pleading for some help. Dean shrugged and ducked the upper half of his body into the hallway for a quick look. Kids and Sam equaled anything from amusement to disaster. Sighing, Dean rolled his shoulders to ease the tension. This encounter promised more entertainment. He turned back to the living room, this time heading to the glass doors for a look at the grounds.

"Maybe you could just tell us what happened?" Sam's voice was starting to sound squeaky, making Dean smile. He'd head over and bail his brother out in another minute or two.

The yard was big, a privacy wall all around and a line of tight round shrubs with large red flowers ran the length of the back.

"My brother, Colin, and I, we were upstairs. We heard Natasha talking and then swearing. Something fell so I went to check it out. Colin came with me."

To the left of the house, beside the large patio were beds of flowers, a tree with a tree-house nicer than many places Dean and Sam had lived in as children. In the center of the yard was a pool, covered with a blue tarp for the upcoming winter.

"Her phone kept ringing and she was getting pissed."

"Brock, Dad says don't use that word." Colin piped up.

Dean shot a look at Sam who was listening to the boys and looking completely befuddled all at the same time. Sam glanced over at him, blinked a few times, nodded and turned back to Brock Carver.

"When he hacked her up I took Colin and ran upstairs, we hid in a closet until our Dad got home."

Dean turned his head to the right, scanning that part of the yard. It was a more open area solid with grass and no plants or trees. The gate near the house swung open and a man, large and familiar in a way that made Dean want to shiver pulled a lawnmower inside the yard. The man stopped, pushed the gate shut with his toe and turned to the house, broad smile on his face.

A face too familiar to Dean. The face of John Winchester.

Before he even had time to register what he'd seen the man turned away to start the lawnmower. When he straightened and began guiding it around the yard he was an older man, gray hair, barely five feet tall and not even close to resembling what John looked like.

Dean jerked the heavy drapes closed and turned around. Sam and the boys sat on the two couches facing each other, heads turned to Dean, mouths open.

"It's too daa-darn bright out there."

He wasn't going to say anything about seeing their dead-turned-to-demon father in front of these two boys, hell, Dean wasn't even sure he wanted to say anything to Sam. It would completely freak his brother out, and Sam had been freaked out enough lately. Dean wanted to ease into it, find a calm way to tell Sam, preferably in private. His first instinct was to guard Sam from the idea John was trailing them, but he couldn't do that. Sam felt he wasn't trusted as it was; that simply wasn't true, but Dean's first impulse was always to shield his brother from anything hurtful.

This was hurtful.

Ticking up an eyebrow and dipping his head slightly, Dean stalked away from the living room and into the kitchen, the sounds of Sam telling Brock and Colin he'd be right back, and to give him a minute with Roger.

"What is wrong with you?" Sam hissed the second they were safely in the kitchen.

Dean paced back and forth, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Sam, I'm sorry, but…" he stopped and faced his brother. "You're really determined to check this out?"

Sam nodded.

"Maybe there's…"

"Something to look into?"

Dean bit his lip at the challenge in Sam's voice. "No. What we need to look into is what we need for ourselves, but we can't leave these kids alone. And honestly, I'm having a bit of a 'led here by our noses' feeling. This was too easy, being mistaken for people Carver was expecting. Which where are those people anyway?"

Another silent nod from Sam.

"Okay, you stay here, baby sit, I'm going to—"

"Me!" This time Sam did squeak while he thumped his hand against his chest. "They're kids."

"I noticed."

"But," Sam grumbled, "kids, Dean, kids. They like you and usually want to claw my eyes out. The last kid I baby sat—"

"Doesn't count since he was dead and all." He held his fist out, "On three?"

Sam blew out a breath, sagged slightly and shrugged, jerking his own fist up and down three times. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open in an "O", it was downright comical. "Paper! You never…you won?"

Dean snickered when Sam's eyebrows shot up under his bangs and his eyes went five-year-old wide.

"You never win." Sam repeated, staring at his hand as if it were some alien creature about to bite his nose.

Patting Sam's shoulder on his way back to the living room, Dean chuckled, "Times are a changing, Sammy, times are a changing."

"Bastard." Sam spat and brushed by him, getting into the living room first. "I…uh…guys, I'm the one the agency sent, the new…"

"…nanny." Dean announced, smirking and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Sam looked like he'd bitten into a very bitter lemon as the word _nanny_ came out of Dean's mouth.

"Who is he then?" Brock pointed at Dean.

"My brother, like I said before." Sam glanced over at Dean, "He's here to…"

Dean pulled his badge out once again. "Like your Dad said, I'm here to provide some extra security. While I'm at it I'll do some investigating into what happened."

"Yeah," Sam sidled up to Colin and leaned down as if imparting some incredible secret on the boy, "You know how over protective big brothers are."

Colin nodded. "Oh yeah."

"Well, he figured he'd come with me to talk to you," Sam went on.

"I wanted to be sure the house was safe and that my brother would be okay here." Dean flipped the collar up on his jacket before he winked at the kid and stuffed his 'badge' back into his pocket.

" _Roger_ is like that."

Taking hold of Brock's shirt with two fingers Dean pulled him farther away. "You can call me by my middle name, Dean."

Brock grinned, "That is so cool."

Leaning closer Dean put on his most serious expression, "That guy might look like a giraffe, but he's _my_ little brother. We understand one another?" He pointed first to himself then aimed the same fingers at Brock's chest. "So be nice to him."

"Yeah, okay, I get it."

Sam rolled his eyes and shoved against Dean's shoulder.

"Good." Dean nearly fell over when Sam pushed him down the hall and to the door. "What?"

"If I'm going to stay here and check out the house and watch these kids, you're going to have to go talk to people and see if there were other victims, or just the girl killed here. You know, research stuff." Opening the door, Sam grumbled, "Go hunt something."

Dean chuckled as he made his way down the steps and to the Impala, turning back to Sam long enough to give him a thumbs up, which earned him another eye roll and a visible if not audible huff. Climbing into the car, Dean gave the rest of that part of the street a quick visual. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. As he pulled away he caught a glimpse of Sam, still standing in the doorway, now looking a bit pale and shaky. He slowed the car enough to make eye contact with Sam who shook his head and waved him off. Following Sam's line of sight Dean saw someone in the neighbor's yard, bent over and pulling weeds.

He needed answers, needed them fast and wanted desperately to get them both away from this town. He was going to make sure John stayed as far away from Sam, and himself, as possible.

Ignoring the noises whispering through his head, blocking them out, Dean drove away.

-0-

Sam shut the door, making sure he caught it before it slammed. He had not just seen his father, the thing parading around looking like his father. He hadn't. Suddenly the idea of being separated from Dean didn't seem as appealing as it did five minutes ago. Scrunching his hand into a fist, Sam shoved away the thought of pulling out his cell phone and getting Dean back here. No matter how much he wanted to do that it simply wasn't an option right now.

Turning to face the two boys, trying hard not to think of the last kid he'd been alone with, Sam plastered a smile on his face. Swinging his arms back and forth then smacking one palm with his other fist, Sam rocked back and forth on his heels a few times. "So, what time is school?"

"It's Saturday." Brock said flatly, shook his head and turned away. He dropped onto one of the couches and picked up a game controller, effectively dismissing Sam from existence.

The ghost kid had been far better behaved and nicer company with a sweeter disposition than this surly fourteen year old.

"Oh, yeah, okay…" Sam scratched at the side of his neck, turning his attention to Colin. "You like school?" Didn't that sound lame?

"How'd you get to be a nanny when you're brother is a cop? Too bad he couldn't stay, he's awesome." Brock was talking, but his gaze was fixed on the TV screen.

"Lost a bet. Gambling is bad, remember that." Sam looked around the room wanting to do something besides make statements that topped one another in profound and incredible lameness.

Brock snorted some disgusted noise. "I can take care of Colin and me just fine. We don't need anyone else in here. You're just doing this cause it pays well."

Colin offered Sam a sympathetic smile.

Where was that cute, nice ghost boy when Sam needed him?

There was a backgammon board on a table on the far side of the living room. Sam waved at it, looking down at Colin. "You…uh…"

The kid literally squealed in delight and bounded across the room, settling in one of the arm chairs beside the table. Sam grinned and ignored how Brock puffed a laugh and mumbled, "geeks." He folded into the other chair, scooped the dice up and handed them to Colin. "You go first."

Brock's gaze slid to them then away, but not before Sam saw one corner of his mouth twitch up. Sam pretended not to notice. If he was going to get anywhere with these kids he knew exactly what he had to do, win over Colin. Brock was mini-Dean in designer clothes and a more expensive house, but the attitude, the way he watched over Colin, everything about him was as familiar to Sam as breathing.

Sam's big brother could be the most annoying person in the universe, but Sam knew one thing for sure, anyone mistreating Sam, now or as a child, had a permanent and volatile enemy in Dean. Anyone kind to Sam earned themselves Dean's respect and in some cases even admiration, on rare occasion he'd even be nice to them. This Sam could work with.

Between rolls of the dice Colin had pulled out things he'd done in school and shown them to Sam who wasn't shy about showing his reactions. The kid was smart, and the projects were pretty cool and Sam said so. Each time Brock turned his head a mere fraction toward them, smiling and nodding.

The air in the hallway darkened and wavered. Sam blinked. Nothing was there other than normal light from the windows. Two more turns at the board later Sam was sure he saw something on the stairs leading to the second floor and bedrooms. When their game was done, Sam stood and stretched, he needed to check out the hallway and maybe the upstairs. "Which way to the bathroom?"

"I'll show you." Colin jumped up, looking back to be sure Sam followed him down the hall. "There is one down there, and two upstairs with showers."

"He doesn't want to take a shower," Brock said.

The hallway was lined with pictures, the boys as babies, Jeffery with a pretty blond woman, an obvious wedding photograph. Sam walked slowly, looking over each picture.

"That's my mom," Colin offered softly, pointing to the wedding shot. "I don't remember her."

"My mother died when I was six months old, I don't remember her either. My brother sort of raised me."

"Don't you have a dad?"

Sam looked down at the little boy, his heart squeezing. "He died last year, but when we were little he worked a lot."

"Like my dad. He was out working when my mom died. There was a fire and she made Brock climb out his bedroom window. That house had an upstairs too. She got him to take me and climb down a tree."

"Wow." There was no pretending, that impressed Sam.

"I was only three. I remember us getting to the ground and looking up. We thought she was climbing down after us. The whole top of the house fell in and she died."

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "That was brave, man."

Brock snorting carried all the way from living room to hall. Sam really missed that ghost boy.

"The bathroom is through there, I'm going to get something to drink. You want anything?" Colin pointed out the bathroom door.

"Coke?"

Colin nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

Sam shut the bathroom door behind him and leaned against the counter for a minute before turning on the water and splashing it over his face. A shadow flicked across the mirror making Sam spin around. The window in the room was narrow, and wide enough it spanned most the outer wall of the bathroom. It was high enough Sam had to stand on tiptoe to peer outside. Brushing the curtains to the side, Sam pressed his cheek to the screen, looking left then right as far as possible.

Nothing.

Doing what he'd come in here to do, Sam wasted no time meeting Colin in the kitchen, taking the offered glass of Coke.

"I used to really like school, until stupid Billy Watkins moved here," Colin said as he and Sam went back to the living room. "Want to play again?"

"Sure."

"That fat asshole bugs you one more time and I don't care if I do get suspended, I'm pounding his stupid face in." Brock groused, eyes never taken off the TV screen.

Sam opened his mouth and shut it again when the doorbell chimed. "You guys expecting anyone?" He was met with two shaking heads and two blank expressions. Shrugging Sam crossed the room, jogged down the hall and looked out the narrow window beside the large door, sucking in his breath so fast it made him dizzy.

There stood his father, John, wearing a mail carrier uniform complete with the bag slung over his shoulder and cans of mace sticking out.

"Enough," Sam snarled and yanked the door open so fast it banged against the wall. Stepping forward he barked, "What the hell do you want?"

"Signature," a breathy, shaky voice whispered.

Sam looked down, and down. The bag of mail probably weighed more than the man carrying it and from the looks of him he might have been old enough to be the original Post Office employee. Thin, balding and winkled the poor man looked like he was going to faint. In one trembling hand was a small package; in the other was a signature pad.

"I…um…ah…sorry." Sam snatched the pad and stylete and signed. "Thanks." He took the package and the rest of the mail, dropping it all on a table near the door. Colin and Brock stood behind him, staring. Sam tried to laugh, but it came out short and nervous, "Low blood sugar. Who wants pizza?"

Brock rolled his eyes and turned, stomping back to the living room, mumbling, "Whatever." Sam bet the ghost boy would have liked pizza.

Colin grinned, snatching the package up and unwrapping it. "I've been waiting for this, it's the new vampire movie."

"Greeeeat," Sam exhaled as Colin followed his brother. Chin dropping to hit his chest, Sam pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger then glanced at his watch wondering how long till Mr. Carver came home and Dean came back.

"What did that Watkins kid do?" Sam pulled out his phone. "Whatcha guys want on your pizza?"

Colin produced a menu for one of the local pizza places from a drawer in the backgammon table and handed it over. "He's a bully. He pushes me around. Number six."

"Hmmm…you know what to do about that?"

"Oh, here comes the lecture." Brock was talking while at the same time ignoring Sam again.

"What does he do?" Sam could ignore Brock just as well. "Show me."

Colin got closer and took a swing at Sam. "This."

"Then you," Sam leaned back, grabbed Colin's wrist and spun him around, "do that. I got that hint from my brother when I was younger than you I think. Then with your other hand, hit him here. My brother would tell you his clothes will hide the bruises." Sam shrugged, "You don't have to hit him hard enough to bruise, I wouldn't do that, but you get the idea."

All at once Brock was beside him, staring up with open admiration. "You're not going to tell him to walk away, turn the other cheek and that crap?"

"No." Sam shook his head. "That never works. Colin will only have to do that once, twice tops, trust me, I know. You think I was born this size?"

"Can we get extra pepperoni and beer?" Brock asked, smiling widely at Sam.

Sam grinned, and dialed the phone. "Pepperoni yes, beer no."

An hour later both boys were in front of the TV, munching on pizza and carefully not mentioning Sam's tiny freak out when he tipped the delivery guy who had dark hair and a beard. Sam had said something to them about the guy reminding him of his father and they seemed good with that. He envied Colin who was still young enough that big brother worship was acceptable. Something warm and comforting filled him when Colin lay on the floor, his head against Brock's thigh.

Sam realized he'd never be too big or old to lean on Dean when he needed. Brock let one hand rest on Colin's shoulder as he leaned against the couch. Familiar feelings welled up in Sam. He couldn't lie on the floor and watch a movie with his head pillowed on Dean's leg anymore, though he'd done just that for many years. However, he, like Colin, had a very dependable older brother who was always watching over him, even when Sam thought he didn't want or need it.

Stretching on the couch, Sam resisted the urge to explain all the flaws in the vampire movie and let his eyes drift shut thinking about when Dean would be back; as far as Sam was concerned it couldn't be too soon.

"He's too weak to make his own decisions." It was John's voice in Sam's ear.

Struggling to sit up and open his eyes, Sam could do neither. He was all fuzzy and confused. His body was too heavy to move and his eyelids were definitely tied down with weights.

"Dean does nothing but what he's told. Not very trustworthy. He's not a fighter like you. You're the smart one, why do you think I was so hard on you?" John's voice rattled in his ear again, barely loud enough to be heard.

 _Wake up, wake_ up!

Sam's brain refused his command. It was odd, knowing he was asleep yet able to hear his father's words.

"He's a weak link, your brother, you're better. We'll be a great team, Sammy."

"Only Dean calls me Sammy." The response was automatic, but it was enough. "Huh? What?" Sam jerked upright pulling away from the hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, you okay?" Brock's hand slid away. Both the boys were pale.

Sam stared for a minute at the chattering coming from the TV before pulling his gaze away and to the boys. "Ye-yeah…I'm…sorry." He struggled to quiet his ragged breathing. As a cover he wiped one hand down his face and realized he was covered in cold sweat.

"What did you dream about?" Colin started scooting closer, but Brock's free hand across his shoulders stopped him.

Sam had to think about the question. "I'm not sure." Dragging a few more shaking breaths into his lungs Sam sat straighter. A few words filtered into his memory, _weak_ , _Dean_ , _better_ , but the memories of his dream were hazy and jumbled adding to his feeling of disorientation. Maybe his father's voice lingered in Sam's ears, but he couldn't be sure.

The deep rumble of the Impala's engine as it neared the house had all three looking toward the front door.

Sam shoved away from the couch and strode down the long hallway to the door, flinging it open and going down the stairs three at a time. He didn't care how much Dean made fun of him. He sprinted to the car and around to the driver's side. Dean looked up, confusion and apprehension all over his face. As he cut the engine he rolled down the window.

"Damn, bro, I sure am glad to see you." Sam tried to steady his voice and failed.

Dean blinked at him a few times then forced his face into a smile.

-0-

Dean pulled down the long drive telling himself he was doing the right thing, leaving Sam here, and that it'd be okay. He knew, _knew_ that he'd seen John, even if on second glance what was John became someone else. If Sam was seeing John too, he wasn't saying so and other than the few brief seconds as Dean drove off Sam did nothing to indicate he had.

Maybe it was Dean John was after this time. The last time it'd been Dean he'd focused on, it was reasonable to think he'd do it again. He had every intention of leading John as far from Sam as possible. What he'd do then, Dean hadn't a clue.

What he did have a clue about was he needed to find out more on the seals, more on what John might be planning, more on what demons in general were up to. Finding those answers was the challenge and Sam already had plenty of materials for them to read on the seals, but he had a list of other resources he needed. Dean's plan was to get Sam the reference materials he wanted and confront John. Being alone in some dark corner of the resource section of a library was the best way to leave himself open for John. Maybe he'd get some answers before he went back for Sam. Most importantly he wanted to deal with the thing no longer his father.

John had made it perfectly clear in Montana, if Sam didn't cooperate, Sam would suffer, possibly die. If John or anyone thought for a second Dean would sacrifice his brother they were beyond wrong and in for a huge disappointment. If Dean wasn't at the house, and John's new mission was convincing Dean to join up in the demon army, his leaving would make John follow. This wasn't the best plan, but it was the one Dean had at the moment. Sam was safer right now without Dean. It hurt and went against everything in Dean to leave Sam, but it really was the best move. Dean would end his own life before letting John threaten Sam again.

Dean had a choice. It was no choice at all, really, Sam or anyone else, including John? No contest.

The road was a two lane, quiet tree-lined road. Every few miles highway over passes crossed above. It was a good fifteen minute drive back to the main part of town. First stop was the library. As usual whatever Dean was looking for seemed to always be housed in the deepest, darkest depths of library basements. Shaking his head, Dean perused the rows of dusty books, finding a few and taking them to a nearby table.

The town was small, but their library was surprisingly well stocked. Taking out a notebook, Dean went through one book after another, making notes as he went. Something moved just outside his vision making him stop reading and straighten in the chair, looking slowly left then right.

He was alone.

Then why did he feel as if he was being watched? How come the hair along the back of his neck was standing on end?

Closing the book, Dean stood up, moving silently he went down the row he'd pulled the books from. Running his fingertips lightly over each binding, he pretended to focus on the titles. A shadow floated along on the other side of the shelves. Glancing at the floor, his own shadow was behind him. Slipping the book back into place, Dean started to whistle and ran to the end of the shelves and grabbed hold, swinging around to the other side.

The shadow ducked down another row, but not before Dean caught a glimpse of a tall, solid body, dark hair and familiar clothes.

Dean searched the rest of the library basement, finding nothing, seeing nothing. Gathering his belongings he decided it was time for daylight, fresh air and lunch. He left the Impala parked and walked the few short blocks to where he'd passed a diner on his way to the library. Stopping with a few other people at a crosswalk waiting for the light to turn he inhaled deeply, trying to shake the odd feeling off his back.

Movement to his right and nearly behind him caught his attention. Someone was waving at him. Someone who looked exactly like his father. The second Dean took a step in that direction a bus went by and that someone was gone after it passed. Dean sprinted in that direction anyway, looking in store fronts and down side streets as he went. A few blocks away and there he was again.

John smiled broadly, waving at Dean. One blink of his eyes and John was gone.

Dean headed back to the diner. It was lunch time and the place was pretty busy. Settling on a stool at the counter to wait, Dean glanced around. No John. Dean breathed a little easier with every passing minute.

"He's going to learn to get in line or suffer the consequences. You can't stop it."

Spinning on the stool so hard he nearly crashed to the floor Dean scanned the diner again. No one took notice of him, no one was behind him speaking, yet the voice had been inches from his ear. Dean was certain he felt hot breath against his skin. By the time he gave his order, to go, and had it Dean had been all over the diner, sure he'd seen John ducking into the men's room, kitchen and out the back door.

He took his food back to his car, happy to be inside and away from the rest of the world. Bright early afternoon sun beat down, the inside of the car was warmed by even the autumn sunshine through the front windshield and combined with Dean's now full stomach, making him drowsy. Sliding down, he leaned his head back against the seat, expecting to see John waving at him from across the parking lot.

Dean wasn't disappointed. By the time he was up and opening the car door, John was gone. Pulling the door shut, Dean groaned and leaned back again. At least when John was harassing him, he knew Sam was safe, unbothered and unharmed. Despite everything, Dean yawned and relaxed. His vision grayed over as sleep tugged at him.

"You were always my favorite. Always the good son. The perfect son."

Dean heaved a sigh and turned his head far enough to see John beside him. "That's Sam's seat." Yeah, great snappy comeback to demon dad.

"Sam is too selfish and he needs to learn to do what he's told. He needs to be more like you, perfect son, perfect soldier, perfect killer. I'm so proud of you, son. How you turned into a hunter no one can best. Maybe not even your old man."

Dean snorted. "We can help you." He knew it was useless, but one last ditch effort couldn't hurt.

"I don't want or need helping. You and me, Dean, together we can do everything we need to."

"What about Sam?"

John shrugged. "He'll play his part. It's you I care about. I told you before, I want you willingly. Sam, I could never get close to Sam, never really love him, not like I do you. Why do you think I was so intent on training you? Sam was always something evil, killed your mother. He tried to kill me, remember that, Dean. You made me so proud by making him stop."

Dean tried to straighten, but his body was glued to the back of the seat. His mouth worked, though. "Sam was never evil. Not as a baby, not now. He didn't kill mom. You seem to think after all these years I'm going to abandon Sam? I'm sick of defending him to you. Leave him alone, stay away from him, and me!"

John chuckled, low and dangerous. "Now, now, Dean, I'm your father, you love me. Don't be like that."

"We're not playing your games, Dad." How was it that he was always in the middle, even after John had been dead a year? He was tired of it, defending Sam, maybe even now having to protect Sam from their own father. "Sam's my family, the only real family I've ever had. Stay away," he growled. His own words and the truth of them surprised him.

"We'll see."

Dean blinked and sat upright, hitting his chest against the steering wheel forcing a painful _omppfftt_ from his throat. "What the—" He took a few deep breaths trying to quiet his shaking insides.

Shoving the food off his lap he pushed the car door open and stumbled outside, leaning against its side staring down at his shaking hands. He had to work to quell the rising anger and encompassing fear coursing through him. Problem was he couldn't focus on exactly what until an image popped into his head, his father, head thrown back, laughing.

Turning around, Dean braced both hands against the car, breathing deeply, taking a few minutes to quiet his mind and body.

On the heels of John's face came Sam's and the overpowering need to be with his brother, now.

-0-

By the time Dean pulled up to the Carver house, he was amazed he hadn't gotten any speeding tickets or mowed anyone over. Seeing Sam bolt from the house and around to his side of the car, Dean knew he'd made the right call, coming back.

Sam's breathless, "Damn, bro, I sure am glad to see you," took Dean by surprise then warmed him.

Hundreds of alarms bells going off in his head, he climbed from the car. "Is everything okay?" Taking a look around the property, everything seemed quiet.

"Yeah, I…uh…it's been a long day…and…" Sam's voice trailed off. His face was so open and earnest Dean couldn't say much, so he nodded and put a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"It was." He squeezed Sam's shoulder and felt how his brother relaxed. Dean knew Sam understood he was relieved they were together as well. He waved at the two boys standing just inside the house. "I don't suppose we're off duty yet?"

"No. Sorry."

Dean shrugged, "Eh, hopefully their father will show up soon." He looked back over his shoulder as he followed Sam into the house.

Sam walked through, scooping up pizza boxes and two-liter bottles of pop. "We have some left if you want?"

"Naaa, I'm good, Sammy, thanks."

Dean spent the next hour glancing out windows, pretending he had to use the bathroom to check out other parts of the house and scrutinizing every window when a breeze kicked up. One look at Sam's face told Dean all he needed to know. Sam was feeling jumpy and watched too. He didn't have to say the words, the emotions rolled off him and onto Dean like a tidal wave.

"They're like us," Sam said quietly, following Dean into the kitchen. He leaned against the counter and watched quietly as Dean paced the room, checking out the windows. "Brock even sounds like you did." Sam's voice was soft and when Dean turned to look at him he gave Dean a small smile.

"I thought you didn't like kids." Dean turned from the door, after double checking the locks twice.

Sam shrugged and smiled. "They're okay kids. Dean, what are you doing?"

"I'm making sure the door is locked. You'd never hear anyone come in this door if you were in the living room."

"I locked the door. I locked all the doors, and there's a security system. You saw him, didn't you?"

Dean tried the windows, back to Sam. "Who?"

"You know damn well who. You don't trust me."

"That's not true, and you know it." Sighing, Dean admitted, "Yeah, I did see him, maybe. I don't know for sure. Have you?"

Sam nodded. "I'm not sure. I thought I saw something, shadows mostly, in the house but whenever I looked nothing was there. People I think are him, they're not."

The distinct sound of a car pulling down the drive stopped their conversation. They heard Brock and Colin running to the door. "Sounds like the old man is home," Dean said. "Now we can get out of here."

Sam didn't look particularly happy about leaving, but there was no excuse for him, either of them, to be here, so he followed, a bit sullenly Dean thought. Ambling through the house and down the front steps, Dean nodded at Carver and his sons, then tapped Sam's arm and dipped his head at the Impala.

Sidestepping closer to Carver, Brock and Colin Sam said good-bye to the boys and told Carver the day had gone smoothly.

"Are you coming back tomorrow? It's Sunday, but Dad still has to work sometimes." Colin asked.

Sam glanced back at Dean, opened his mouth, sucked in a quick breath, obviously caught off guard by the boy's question. "I…yeah, sure, of course. See you guys tomorrow."

"I need you here at ten sharp, don't be late," Carver grumbled and herded his children into their house.

Dean was waiting when Sam folded into the Impala, carefully not looking at him.

"Why did you tell them that?"

"I told you I thought I saw something in the house. We can't just leave them, what if whatever I saw is after them?"

"What if it's after _us_ , Sam?" Dean stomped on the gas pedal, gunning the engine and pulling out of the drive and onto the road. "We can't keep running around getting distracted."

"Dean, will you be reasonable?"

"Reasonable?" He shouted. "Here's my freaking reasonable, there is something after us, you and me, something that used to be our father, who knows us and how we think. For once you and I come first. I'm not risking you for an ungrateful family we've known for a day."

"They're not ungrateful, but they don't know anything either," Sam shot back.

Dean could tell by the set of Sam's jaw, how he stared ahead and wouldn't look at Dean, how his fists clenched against his thighs he wasn't backing down anytime soon. From the sidelong glance he got from Sam he knew his brother understood Dean wouldn't listen to anymore.

By the time they returned to their motel neither one was speaking. Shoving through the door and dropping his duffels on his bed Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. Turning to watch Sam stalk inside, "Look, Sam—" Dean's words died when he caught a glimpse of what he thought was John outside in the parking lot staring at them. Staring at Sam. John punched one palm with the other fist then smiled and disappeared.

"What?" Sam twisted to look outside.

"I…" Dean brushed by him and slammed the door shut. "We've got to worry about us."

"I am worried about us, but I'm not going to stand by and watch innocent people get hurt when there is something we can do about it." Sam was shouting again, waving his arms up and down.

This was getting Dean nowhere fast. Looking down at the floor for a minute, he took a deep breath. "Okay, it's been a long day. Can we call a truce for now and just get some sleep, hash it out tomorrow."

Sam dropped onto his bed and clicked on the TV, "Nothing will change in the morning."

 _Pick your battles, Winchester_.

For now at least Sam was here, safe where Dean could be sure John wouldn't get to him. He'd worry about tomorrow in the morning. A hot shower relaxed Dean even more, though he did wonder why Sam was so against the idea of delivered pizza for dinner when normally the kid loved pizza for any meal and the fact Sam had some for lunch normally wouldn't matter. They went for food in silence and Dean did his best to not let on he was seeing who he'd think was John at every turn, some violent gesture aimed at Sam. He'd blink and John would morph into someone not even remotely resembling him, twice "John" turned out to be a woman.

Dean seriously needed food and sleep.

He didn't bother fighting Sam for the TV remote when they got back from their silent, almost chilly dinner. He simply climbed into bed and buried himself under blankets and pillows.

 _Sam's face flashed behind his closed lids. John's face behind Sam's, eyes black, expression angry. It was Sam's eyes Dean fixated on. Yellow and focused at some point beyond Dean. Arm extended, hand out, Sam's yellow eyes narrowed. In the next instant Dean heard screams, people suffering, dying. He couldn't see them or what was happening to them, but he knew just the same, it was because of Sam._

 _John smiled and ran Sam through from the back with a long, thin sword, dropping Sam at his feet, laughing while a puddle of blood spread out from Sam's chest. Dean watched in horror as Sam convulsed and died, reaching out to him. No matter how fast Dean ran, he couldn't get to Sam. His little brother died alone._

 _John glared at Dean, lips moving and even though Dean couldn't actually hear the low spoken words he knew what John said._

" _He'll learn he has to fall into line, or else."_

Sucking in a huge breath Dean was sitting up, panting and shaking. Gaze darting around the room, it was dark and quiet. His fist shoved against his mouth to keep from screaming, Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed and peered at Sam. His brother was sleeping, maybe shivering a bit in his sleep, Dean couldn't be sure.

He tried desperately to pull the details of his nightmare from his muddied brain, but it was useless. The only thing he could be sure of was he didn't believe what he saw, but even so he knew Sam was in terrible danger. No way was Dean ever letting John kill his brother.

-0-

Sam stared at the closed bathroom door for a few minutes. When he heard the sound of the shower, he shrugged, pushed off the bed to his feet and wandered out of the room and down the walkway in search of a vending machine.

Dean was being an ass. An unsympathetic, uncaring ass.

Finding a pop machine a dozen or so rooms down, Sam shoved coins into it and made his selection. "That's not true," he said to the machine, punching it hard enough to make it rattle in place. "You know Dean cares." Sam cracked open his pop, swiveled on his heels and leaned back against the machine. "You know damn well he cares, mostly about me."

Straightening and pulling away from the machine, Sam spun to his right when he saw something lurking near the Impala. Darker lines moved across the shiny black of the car, making whatever part it touched deepen in color and stop shining. "Hey!"

Sam ran at the car, sure he saw someone, or something slithering around the back fender as he approached from the front. Skidding as he rounded the back corner of the car, he jerked to a stop and blinked a few times. John stood next to the driver's door hand on the roof of the car. "Stop doing this." Sam strode forward, immediately angered that this _thing_ would dare touch their car, the car Dean painstakingly cared for.

John smiled and swiped his finger across the driver's door window, waved and vanished.

Sliding to a stop next to the door, Sam looked down. He felt dizzy. Cold sweat oozed between his shoulder blades and down his back. The pop can was crushed flat as his hand clenched into a tight fist. Whipping the can into the air and across the parking lot, Sam shouted, "No. Never. Not going to happen!"

Not wanting to waste the time going back to their room for the keys and possibly alerting Dean he pulled his shirt off. Sam used it to wipe the window clean of the single word smeared in something blood red across the glass.

 _Killer_.

Sam used his shirt to clean spilled pop off his hands and hurried back to their room, relieved when he heard the shower still running. A few minutes later Dean emerged and quietly went to bed. Lying on his back, Sam stared at the ceiling for a while before turning off the TV and rolling over, trying to sleep.

 _Killer. Soldier. Soldiers followed orders to kill. John gave orders. Dean followed orders. Orders Sam couldn't hear, but knew were issued just the same from his father. Kill them. Kill them all. Get rid of the useless meat suits scum. Don't think about it, don't question it, simply kill._

 _Follow my orders or suffer the consequences_.

Sam's eyes were open and he was staring at the pillow before he realized he'd woken up. The pillow and his face were wet. Sniffing, he rolled onto his side and glanced over at Dean, sleeping in the other bed, not out killing innocents. Sam used the corner of the sheet to wipe his face, not wanting to move around much and wake his brother.

That was John's plan? Turn Dean into some killing machine. Sam was convinced now more than ever, that was why John had contacted Dean when he wanted them in Montana. That's why Sam was always sent away, so John could cajole Dean into doing his bidding. Maybe that's why Dean wouldn't tell him what had been said in the warehouse in Montana.

John was after Dean, wanted Dean for some cruel plan. Well he sure as Hell wasn't getting Dean, not now, not ever.


	3. The Charade of the Season Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** Part Three   
> **

**  
Part Three   
**

Against all expectations Sam had fallen asleep again and when he woke up the next time, the day was already old enough to have daylight peeping from behind the closed drapes. The dream, even though vivid and alive only seconds ago seemed to trickle away the more he tried to remember.

It had something to do with Dad and Dean and...

 _Killer_!

His heart clenched painfully in his breast. Yes, something about a killer. But apart from that there was nothing but blurry images and fearful expectations.

Something bad would be happening, he just knew. It was a knowledge so deeply buried that he wondered if maybe he'd had a vision. But if it had been a vision, he'd be able to remember it, wouldn't he? What good were visions of the future if you couldn't remember them?

With a hasty movement he turned in his bed and looked at the one next to his, where Dean was lying awake, fully clothed and ready for the day as if he hadn't even gone to bed at all.

"What?" Sam asked and he regretted his harsh question before all air had left his mouth.

"Nothing." Dean replied, a hint of worry in his voice, then swiftly got up and crossed the room. "Just wanted to wait until you're up before I go and get some breakfast. Wanna come?"

 _Killer!_

Sam needed a few seconds to realize his brother was staring at him. "Hey, you sleeping with your eyes open?" Dean asked.

"Uhm, no. Go ahead." Sam stretched his arms above his head. "Sorry, didn't sleep very well."

"Glad to know. I just want to make sure you're not running around sleepwalking." He grabbed his jacket and went to open the door. "You're sure you're going to be alright?"

Sam raised his eyebrow.

"Dean, I'm not twelve anymore. I'm old enough to be left alone for a few minutes."

"Wow!" Dean replied, not looking impressed at all. "The last time you said this I came back to find you kidnapped by a troll."

"Yes Dean, I remember." Sam rolled into a sitting position and rubbed his eyes. "And I was twelve then."

"So, you sure I can leave you alone?" Dean asked again. "I just..."

He never finished the sentence but just kept staring at his brother until Sam stirred under his scrutinizing stare.

"Would you please just stop that?" Sam demanded and rose from his bed before vanishing into the bathroom to do his usual morning routine. Through the closed door he said: "Go! Get coffee. Looks like you need it. I'll survive."

A few seconds later the door slammed and Sam sighed, leaning heavily on the sink. The cold porcelain felt more refreshing and alive than his own body. Turning on the shower he waited for the hot water to come and stood under the steady stream of warmth trying to rinse off the tension with soap and shampoo. Even through the loud rushing and the closed bathroom door he heard Dean stomping back in and immediately felt a strange sensation of hostility towards his brother.

When had talking to his brother gotten so hard? He wished things were like before. Before their fighting and their secrets. Before everything had changed with their father. Sometimes, Dean didn't even feel like his brother anymore.

"Are you trying to drown yourself?" Dean yelled through the closed door and knocked against it. "Hurry up, the coffee's getting cold."

Aware of the water getting cold, Sam started to shiver and stepped out of the cubicle. Hurriedly he dried himself up, put on some clean clothes before leaving the small, steamy room and apoplogizing with a mumbled "Sorry, lost track of time."

"Well?" Dean smirked but it sounded strained. "You grow gills yet?"

Sam didn't answer. Instead he grabbed his coffee and took a few gulps, enjoying the mixture of sweet and bitter. The taste managed to drain the last remnants of sleep from his mind and he could feel his agitation over the disturbing nightmares lessen even though the images were still vivid in his mind.

They sat, facing each other while Dean kept twirling his Styrofoam cup in his left fingers.  
"You ready?"

"For what?"

"Leaving."

"You know we can't!"

"Crap, Sam! What the hell are we doing here? This is not a case, this is a charade in freaking Charade. Those boys...?" He pointed in the general direction of the boys home. "They don't need saving. _We_ do. They're not _us_ , Sam. There isn't anything to investigate but the fastest route out of here."

Sam had expected this kind of reaction but his fingers tightened around his own cup of coffee nonetheless, spilling some of the hot liquid on his fingers and the blotchy, rubberized table cloth. He jerked away, wincing.

"We talked about this last night."

"Yes, I remember. I also remember wanting to continue this discussion in the morning," Sam replied calmly. He looked out the window and his tone grew mocking. "Oh, look! It's morning, so let's discuss. Oh, and I'm not leaving while those boys are in danger."

Either Dean was too stunned by Sam's calm demeanor or too angry for shooting back in an instant. Either way, he needed a few seconds to come up for an answer. His own tone now a little quieter while his aggressiveness had not lost any of its fuel.

"You're an idiot!"

"You're calling me and idiot? Who's the one acting all crazy? What's wrong with. Those boys might be in imminent danger and you act like you couldn't care less." Sam hit back and it seemed to hit a nerve because Dean's left eye twitched and his lips formed words that would never leave his mouth.

"I'm the one acting crazy?" Dean repeated, half hysterically. "Who's the one who risks his own life for strangers, even if it's kids? You can't save everyone, Sam. We can't. Dammit, I'm trying to protect you. It doesn't help if you walk around and put yourself in front of everyone to act like a freaking human shield. Don't you realize how stupid this is? We're in deep shit and Dad is so close on his heels that I can almost smell the sulfur."

He stopped, as if only now realizing what he was talking about but it was too late. Sam had already caught the slip and was talking himself into a rage.

"Oh, now that we're getting to the interesting facts of your speech you decide to shut up? This is not fair, Dean! What. Is. Going. On! Dammit! I'm not stupid. There's more behind that whole Dad's organizing an army thing and I'm almost this close..." He held his thumb and fore finger only an inch apart. "... to losing my patience. We used to be a team, Dean. Remember? And now it feels like we're running away like common cowards? From our Dad? That's not our style." He halted. "Especially not yours."

His breath was going fast and he could feel his heart beating rapidly against the inside of his ribcage while he stared at his brother who, for just a tiny second, had the decency to look guilty before his face closed up, hardening like he had learned.

 _"Don't show your emotions. They mirror everything what's inside of you. Your thoughts, your wishes, your plans. How do you defeat someone who can read your mind?"_ John Winchester's lectures were chiseled in their very personalities and they stared at each other, neither of them shying away until Sam took a deep breath and straightened up.

Looked like their father didn't have to be present to drive a wedge between them.

"This discussion is over," Dean concluded. His eyes cold, his face a mask of resolution. "We're leaving."

"Dean, listen to yourself! I know you better than anyone else and can see something is bothering you big time. I'm trying to understand. I really do, but I think you're hiding something and it's driving me nuts. Sometimes..."

 _Killer!_ The memories of his dream came back and made him shiver.

"...sometimes I'm not even sure who's standing in front of me anymore."

 _Sometimes I'm not even sure I'm the one with the evil inside._

Dean blinked, once, twice, before clearing his throat and answering in a voice calm and defeated enough to make Sam's anger recede. Just a little.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I only... " the older man gulped. "I do care about people and I also do care about the boys. But... I care so much more about you. And you seem to be suicidally ignorant about it. And... I need to get some fresh air."

His words were still hanging in the air like puppets on strings before being cut down and plummeting to the ground when he reached for the doorknob and fled from the room, leaving the door wide open and Sam confused and despairing.

-o-

The gurgling sounds of the Impala were calming. The rumbling of the motor made the seat vibrate even though he wasn't driving. Still sitting in the parked car he had turned the ignition and now the engine was idling. It really was a soothing sensation and he felt himself relax a little, letting his head fall against the head rest and closing his eyes, thereby taking his attention off their motel room. The steady rumbling drowned the whispering and Dean glanced at the radio to make sure it was turned off. It was, yet the eerie static was still murmuring in the background.

"Shut up!" Dean growled, hiding his face behind his hands. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

Okay, now it was official. He WAS going insane and all of sudden he felt sorry for Sam who had taken the brunt of his actions.

He had to admit, he _was_ acting a little insane... but only a little and NO, he would not let Sammy so easily off the hook. His little brother was the one being unreasonable and he'd have to make sure Sam would see it his way. Ha! And pigs could fly. Convincing Sam of his own motives was impossible. He was trying to do so for twenty-four years and where had it gotten him?

He had a dead father who was walking around killing innocents and a little brother who was keen on letting himself be killed _for_ the innocent. Fucked up didn't even come close.

He needed a drink. Yes, it wasn't even ten in the morning but if he didn't get a drink soon, he'd explode.

The door to their room was closed again and Dean assumed that Sam had every intention of pouting for at least a week but at least he was safe within the walls of that motel room. Before Sam had woken up Dean had made sure that all the salt lines were intact. Hidden sigils were scratched almost imperceptibly into the window frames and Sam had nowhere to go, anyway.

Reassured, Dean put the car in gear and slowly made his way out of the parking lot.

The town was strangely quiet and empty until he realized that it was Sunday, ten am, and most citizens were dutifully sitting in pews, listening to white collared men palavering about God and his oh-so-helpful plan of salvation. In their line of work it was more likely to find demons, banshees and raw-heads than God. God was not someone to rely on. For salvation, or comfort.

Driving past a white building with a bell tower reaching proudly towards heaven, Dean shook his in disgust and almost hit a parked car when someone winked at him. The man was standing on the top of the stairs leading into the church and waved frantically in Dean's directions. He was about twenty yards away but the black beard was as imminent as the cruel twinkle in his coal colored eyes.

John Winchester.

Dean hit the brakes and the car came to a halt. A loud honk came from behind and seconds later a pick-up drove past him, an old man shaking his fist towards him.

"Are you crazy?"

Dean stared after the man for a second, then looked back at the church, where a man was still looking towards his direction. But he now looked two-hundred pounds heavier and not even half as interested in Dean than before.

He really needed a drink. Now.

The next place that was likely to offer alcohol he found was not far away from the church

 _God and his freaking mysterious ways, huh?_ Dean pondered and parked the car in the closest free lot.

The dingy bar was a mixture of a diner and a bar and the lady behind the counter looked like she had been doing the night shift for ten weeks in a row. With slow movements she was busy cleaning a glass with a stained rag that had already seen better days. In the back of the room two men were sitting and poking with little enthusiasm in what once might have been scrambled eggs.

"Morn'ng!" The woman mumbled, snuffled and rubbed her nose against her sleeves. "What can I get ya?"

"Beer!" Dean ordered without thinking and sat down on a stool, leaning heavily on the counter with his head hanging. It was starting to hurt with all the noise around him.

"Ya sure?" The woman repeated and looked skeptically at the clock above the main entrance. Maybe it was due to the closeness of the church or maybe the bar was less shabby than Dean had assumed but even here it seemed unusual to booze before noon. Trying to look less shitty than he was feeling Dean nodded.

"Yeah. Definitely! Call it a late late night drink, okay? "

"Okay", the woman replied and filled a glass with amber-colored liquid. A nice, white foam covered it and Dean almost looked forward to drinking.

"There you go, honey." She purred.

The glass was put in front of him and he stared at it for a few seconds before holding his nose over it. The bitter sweet entered his nostrils and he almost gagged, regretting his choice of beverage already.

 _There's something majorly wrong with me_ , Dean thought and sipped at the beer nonetheless.

A small TV with a blurry screen stood behind the bar woman and showed the latest news. A train wreck, market rates and the weather forecast. The smug weather reporter looked like he had the prospect of winning the Pulitzer with his contribution and smiled with ridiculously white teeth into the camera.

"Could you turn down the volume?" Dean murmured and leaned his aching head into his hand, earning a strange look from the woman who twisted the little button on the device. The commentators voice died down but that didn't bring the expected quiet. It sounded like he was sitting next to a waterfall _and_ in the middle of a football stadium on Superbowl Sunday. Why did everyone have to talk so damn loud?

A loud whining noise stood out like a siren, penetrated his ears and threatened to burst his eardrums. Still there was an annoying voice who kept talking and talking and talking, the words a scrambled mess.

Dean wiped his hands over his face, trying to scrub away the unwanted hysteria that was rattling his inner walls. "The volume!" He burst. "I asked you to turn the freaking volume down. Is that too much to ask?"

"Excuse me?" The woman asked confused, her eyebrows rising questioningly.

"The volume, dammit, the volume. You've got to hear this?" Dean exploded and hit his fist on the table, which made her back off frightened. "Can someone turn off that freaking noise?"

"The volume _is_ down," The woman answered, now looking seriously freaked out. Helplessly she threw a look at a man, who had appeared next to her. From his grease and cheese covered apron Dean could tell that he was the cook. Or at least someone with the competence to put meat on the grill.

"Hey, you?" He boomed. "You got a problem, pal?" A bedraggled towel was slung over his shoulder and wiped his fingers on it.

 _Where should I begin?_

Dean snorted hysterically. "What? Problem? No problem, _Sir._ I just want to drink this crappy beer at ten in the morning. What makes you think I have a problem?"

"Maybe you should leave," The guy asked and Dean suppressed the urge to laugh. The man looked like he had more beer before his scrambled eggs than Dean had in the whole last week. "So, you want to kick me out?"

The noise spiked and his head rang. Someone was obviously pushing his buttons and starting a fight wouldn't help. Begrudgingly Dean put a crumpled bill on the counter and after a last look at the bar lady mumbled "No need to overstrain yourself. I'm leaving. That was the worst beer ever, by the way. I'm cured now. Thanks."

Things were slowly but surely falling apart, his sanity included. Stumbling back to his car he let himself fall into the seat, not even acknowledging the man on the other side of the street who had a distinct similarity with someone he had salted and burned months ago. Maybe this was a weird experiment and he was the white mouse in a labyrinth? Maybe he had to take a certain route to get to the notorious compensation.

"Damn you, Dad!" he said and pressed thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. "Thanks for being the shittiest father in the world. Even dead you're ruining your son's life."

Sam was right, of course. No one else knew which buttons to push as well as John Winchester. No one else was able to drive Dean as close to the edge as his father. Oh heck, he wasn't even close to the edge. Actually, he was already hanging way over it, pedaling his feet in the air like the coyote before falling down a deep canyon.

Dean wasn't sure what was worse. The truth or the fact that he was denying it in front of his little brother who had the guts to face it.

He closed his eyes, ashamed by his own weakness and was startled when something started to ring penetratingly on the passenger seat. The black cell was vibrating impatiently and the display blinked in a bluish light, announcing the caller ID in capital letters. Bobby.

Taking a deep breath and gathering the meager rest of himself he pushed the green button.

"Hey Bobby!"

"Hey," Bobby greeted and according to his tone it wasn't a _the-apocalypse-has-decided-to-come-home-early_ -call.

"Bobby?" Oh, maybe he shouldn't have used the name with a question mark.

"Yes, who else, you dumbass!"

"Oh I don't know. Someone to tell me I won the cruise after all."

Bobby snorted but turned serious again quickly. "Okay, what's going on with the two of you?"

How the heck did he do that?

Bobby had a thing for reading between the lines... or words... or breaths for that matter. Pity was, Dean was an awful liar and his reply wouldn't even have convinced a three-year old that Santa Clause was the real thing. "Nothing, why are you asking?"

"Ack, I don't know. Could have been a bird twittering in my ears. And Sam wanted to stay in touch. The books I gave him aren't exactly cheap comics, you know." He waited. "So, any important news you are willing to share with me?" This time Dean had the distinct impression that it was just a rhetorical question and he knew all along that there was something brewing in the Winchester kitchen. "Spill!"

"Bobby, I... We had a fight."

"A fight?"

Dean nodded, his fingers back to pressing the point at his temple as if he was looking for the switch to turn his obnoxious inner loudspeakers on and off.

"Dean, if you're nodding I might have to slap you the next time you come to see me."

"Sorry, yes a fight." Dean answered. "It's stupid."

"YOU are stupid. Both of you. I keep telling you, but you never listen."

"Bobby", Dean interrupted. "I'm not sure how to deal with... this. With Dad. With that _thing_. Sam..."

Bobby sighed heavily and Dean could hear his friend adjust the position of a chair-probably one of the wooden chairs in the old man's kitchen-before sitting down on it. "You know, you can't afford to lose your perspective. Not now." He pointed out. "I know you didn't choose this, none of us did. But this doesn't allow you to turn all egoistic all of a sudden and ignore the bigger picture here, you understand, son?"

Dean nodded again, simultaneously saying. "I know."

"Great! So now that's clear I want you to move you ass and talk to your brother. And whatever hissy fit you both are coming down with... solve it! Oh and tell Sam to call me. I'm not lending him my books so he can have a nap on them."

Without another word Bobby had hung up.

-o-

He knew Dean would kill him for this but right now Sam didn't care. Sitting ducks in that motel room was not an option and if Dean was allowed to run off and let off steam, so could Sam.

The distance to the Carver's household wasn't far enough to justify a cab and so he put on a jacket, pocketed his cell and walked the two miles to the politician's home.

No gardener was visible in the garden, no one in the garage. Slightly tense, Sam rang the bell and seconds later he could hear pounding steps from behind the closed door and seconds later it was opened by Brock, whose face fell the very moment he recognized Sam. Obviously, the boy had not expected him to back at all.

"It's you."

"Well, yeah." Sam replied.

"What do you want?"

"Nanny, remember?"

"You're one hour late. My dad's gonna kill you."

"Yeah," Sam mumbled, too quiet for the boy to overhear. "That's what dads do."

In this very moment a loud crashing sound came from the kitchen, followed by a painful yelp.

"Colin!" Brock hollered, half worried, half annoyed, and surprisingly without closing the door in Sam's face the boy turned and ran towards the source of the mishap. "I told you I'd get the cookie jar down."

"Sorry!" Sam heard Colin answer and grinned, closing the door behind him after entering the house.

He followed Brock into the kitchen where Colin was standing in the middle of a carpet of broken porcelain with crumbled cookies strewn in. "Great!" Brock scolded. "You're so going to clean this up by yourself, hear me?" Still, he carefully avoided crunching the shards and picked up his younger brother, who-as Sam realized-was not wearing any shoes. "How often did Dad tell you not to run around without your slippers on?"

"Sorry," Colin said, his face painfully guilty for a second before a happy grin appeared when he saw Sam enter. "Hey, Sam!"

"Hey Colin," Sam winked. He watched as Brock rummaged in one of the lower cupboards and produced a dust pan and a hand brush. "Where's your father?"

Colin's face fell and his shoulders sagged. "Working", he stated and Sam felt sorry for the little guy.

"Yeah, working is more important to him than his own sons." Brock announced bitterly. "He promised..." The boy fell silent and Brock started to carefully sweep the floor, his claim that his younger brother was supposed to clean this mess obviously already forgotten.

In the meantime, Colin clumsily mounted one of the stools and leaned his face in his hands. "Dad promised to spend some time with us today but he got a call and had to leave." Colin looked at Sam, his big brown eyes shining watery. "Why doesn't he want to spend time with us?"

Suddenly, Sam regretted having come after all. It wasn't like he didn't feel sorry for the two boys or didn't want to help. On the contrary, all of a sudden Sam felt himself catapulted back into his childhood, demanding to know where his father was going and when he'd be back. Why he didn't seem to want to be around his sons. He wanted to make these boys better. Wanted to explain to them the reasons. Wanted them to know that sometimes fathers weren't the heroes you expect them to be.

Fathers were only human, too.

"It's... " he begun, then closed his mouth again. Brock just swiped the last remains of the garbage on the dustpan but his attention was riveted on Sam, who sat down next to Colin, carefully planning his next words.

"It's not like that. Your father loves you. Both of you." Sam started, emphasizing every single word. "But... every father has a different way of showing his love."

Both boys were looking at expectantly and Sam felt like he was sitting under the stare of half a dozen teachers testing his academic integrity.

 _Damn, Dean would be so much better at this_ , he thought.

"Some, like your father, are working really hard to give you everything money can buy and where power can get you." Sam explained, searching hard for the right words when all he knew about Carver was that his work meant more to him than spending time with his kids without having the excuse of demons on their tails. "They have their own way of showing feelings. Sometimes they are extra stern with you. But they do this to teach... for life. They want you to be the best and most competent grown-up you can ever become even when they have to do things you don't like."

"But I don't want to be a grown-up, yet." Colin mused, knitting his eyebrows. "I'm still a kid and I want him to be my father. Can't I just tell him that he has to wait until I'm grown up?"

Almost snorting at the infinite innocence in the boy's question Sam caught him self and shook his head. "Usually, fathers do not change their motivation when they think it's the best for us... you."

Oh, what a hypocrite he was. Talking about loving fathers who took care of the bad in the world, wanting to protect his offspring when all he could see was the grimace of his father, who was squeezing the breath out of him with an invisible hand. Wasn't the whole "family" thing the biggest lie in their lives? Sam's and Dean's?

On the other hand, hadn't his father taken care of them the best way he could? The only way he could?

Sam would never say his father gave him the best childhood he could have in his situation but maybe it was the safest. Everything his father did was to protect them. He was their partner in all crimes, proverbially speaking and never expected anything less from them.

Even now.

"Sam?" Sam startled out of his thoughts, looking at Brock who was staring at him inquiringly.

"I'm okay."

"So," Colin is curiously tilting his head. "How was your Dad?"

That made Sam smile.

"My Dad?" He repeated and laughed. "He was the worst Dad ever but he loved us all the more."

"How can he be a bad father and still love you?" Brock now wanted to know and it was the first time that Sam didn't even see the shadow of a hostile sneer on the teenager's face.

"It's complicated." Ha, no shit! "Our father took care of things his way..." _and it usually implied killing or maiming something_. "Even though he was barely there when I was younger I always felt safe. Most of it was Dean's— Roger's—doing of course but my father always knew which strings to pull so we at least had a place to live, food and each other, my brother and I."

"So Dean took care of you? Like Brock does me?" Admiringly Colin looked at Brock whose cheeks turned a little pink at the simple praise.

"Definitely!" Sam nodded and smiled. "Brock is your personal Dean."

"Cool!" Colin explained enthusiastically. "Do you have a picture? When you were younger?"

Slightly thrown of his guard Sam fished for his wallet in the back of his pants. "Sure I do." He opened the leather case, revealing his driver's ID, some fading sales receipts and a crinkled photograph of himself, Dean and his father. The second he held the image towards Brock the boy gasped, his eyes wide and fearful. He took a step backwards, his foot hitting the dirt filled dust pan and making it sail noisily over the tiles.

"It's the monster," Colin wheezed and suddenly, things were clear.

This case wasn't a case. It was just another trap.

Still John Winchester was the puppet master mastering the strings.

Taking care of things.

-o-

The door to their motel room was closed and Dean did not look forward to opening it to face his brother. To be honest, he felt like he really should have finished that stale beer from the bar before having _a talk_ with Sam. The door, though, was locked and with a heavy feeling in his stomached Dean searched for the room keys in the pockets of his leather jacket.

Finally, the door swung open revealing an empty room. His own bed was still unmade, the blankets ruffled from his sleep while Sam had at least straightened the covers of his own bed. His and Sam's travel bags were half unpacked sitting on top of it.

"Sam?"

There was no answer and Dean glanced at the table, where a small note was positioned against a table display for leaflets of a local winery.

 _Went to watch the boys. Sam_

Nothing more.

The phone in his pocket began to ring again and Dean expected to see Bobby's caller ID. Apprehensively he looked at it and it read: Sam.

So much for that.

"Sam, you idiot. I told you-"

Dean stopped, holding the device a few inches away from his ear and pulled a grimace. Loud static hissed through the connection and it was even worse than his own supernatural tinnitus.

"Sam?" he yelled into the device, not receiving a comprehensible reply except for more static and then.

"Dean? Dean... it's..." Sam screamed and the connection was interrupted.

But Dean was already running towards his car .


	4. The Charade of the Season Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **PART FOUR**

**PART FOUR**

Dean couldn't get into the car soon enough. The engine wouldn't crank over fast enough. He couldn't get the car in to gear quickly enough. Tires squealed against pavement making the car fishtail and causing Dean to spin the wheel frantically, wasting precious seconds.

At long last he was headed in the right direction, to the home of Jeffrey Carver.

He had no way of knowing for sure why Sam was shouting his name and why his brother's voice had been cut off. Dean had a good idea, though.

The static and ringing in his head and ears suddenly cleared. Replacing it was images, clear and crisp, playing out on the movie screen in Dean's brain.

His mind jumped and skipped, heading back into the past. Sam holding an ice cream cone, he was maybe three or four. An accidental bump from John's knee and Sam's iced cream splattered over the sidewalk causing the little boy to burst into tears. John reached to comfort him, but Sam twisted away, arms out to Dean. Angered, John had grabbed the rest of the cone and flung it away, screaming at his small son to toughen up, take on his responsibility, do his job and stop balling. Fists shaking in the air so violently, Dean turned away, shielding young Sam with his own body, afraid his father would pummel Sam with those huge fists.

Dean shook his head and rubbed his forehead. "That never happened."

Before he could consider it much further his mind jumped elsewhere, he and Sam shooting at targets. Dean remembered how the deer bound into the clearing they'd set up as a range too quickly. Shots had been fired. It was too late. Devastated, Sam had cried. It was his shot that brought the deer down. John shoved against Sam's shoulders, shouting in the ten-year-old boy's face, "Grow up, do what you're told." Fear slithered through Dean, fear that his father was going to hurt his brother. Dean swallowed his fear and pushed between the two of them, forcing Sam behind him where it was safe. "You'll fall into line, or else." John pointed a finger at Sam before storming away.

The deer and shooting it by accident that part Dean remembered, but not his father's reaction. In actuality they'd all felt badly about the deer.

One after another memories, distorted and angry rolled through Dean's head. A comment Sam made to a witness invoking John's ire, a wrong turn taken while Sam was driving resulting in Sam being physically thrown from the car—all of which either never happened or never happened that way, but in each memory Dean was forced between father and brother, fearing for his brother's life. Fearing his brother's life would be ended by his father.

It was like being sent a message over and over, same theme, slight variations.

A message.

 _Sam will do what he's told or else_.

Dean shivered. Slamming his hand against the steering wheel, he snapped, "It's all been a freaking set up!"

The mysterious killer in the Carver house, the way Dean saw John at every turn. He and his brother split apart. Dividing their resources and in doing so leaving each other open and at risk, alone. It'd all been a set up, a way to leave them vulnerable to attack. All of this conspired and set up by John. Their father was after them, had made it quite clear in a warehouse in Minnesota Sam would follow along or he'd die and force Dean to make a choice.

Foot pressing harder against the gas pedal, Dean kept an eye out for cops, barely slowing down for turns or stop signs.

"Hello, Dean."

The telephone pole looming up fast seemed to slide into the road and back to the curb again as Dean's foot left the gas, tapped a few times on the brake as he swung the steering wheel to the left in time to avoid collision. A quick glance to his right before his eyes trained back onto the road. "What do you want?"

"Dean, son, is that anyway to greet your father?"

"My father is dead. I put him in a pyre and lit the fire myself." Dean obstinately glared at the road in front of him. If he didn't look at this abomination, he could remember that, _his father was dead_.

"You know the truth Dean, you've known all your life, it's always been inside you. Sam is too unstable, he needs to be controlled. He's nothing but evil, but you and I can keep a lid on him, but we have to work together. If you don't, he'll pull you down."

"Sam's not evil," Dean snarled, fingers squeezing so tightly around the steering wheel he was starting to lose feeling in them.

John threw his head back and laughed. "You keep on telling yourself that. Why do you think I trained you like I did? Huh? You were so good, Dean, perfect soldier, perfect hunter, perfect student. Learned all your lessons so well and never once didn't follow an order. You want your brother alive so badly, want him with you? Then you follow this order. Sam falls into line or he dies. Sam gets with the program and lets me call the shots and you help me get that control, or Sam dies and he doesn't die quick and he doesn't die painless. You're the only who can keep your brother alive. We'll be the perfect team."

Allowing his eyes to leave the road for a split second, Dean shot a look at John. This thing was completely serious. "As if Sam or I would go along with that, so if you have ideas of the three of us being some unholy trinity, guess again. For the record? Sam has kicked way tougher demon ass than you. He's a good hunter and an awesome brother. Sam doesn't care what I can do, or how well I can do it. You know the biggest difference? Sam loves me because I'm his brother, not for any other reason."

A quick check in the rearview mirror to be sure on one was behind them and Dean slammed on the brakes. He was disappointed John remained where he was instead of lurching forward.

"Maybe, maybe not." John picked at the edge of the dashboard. Dean reached over and slapped his hand away, making John snicker. "This is the complete truth, only you can keep Sam alive and safe, you're the only one with that answer inside you. You want him that way? You and I need to work together. Otherwise, the evil in your brother will end you both."

Dean dipped his head to the side, cracking his neck. It was easy, take himself out of the equation. That gave Dean a thought, he wasn't suicidal, but he was intent on keeping his brother safe. As fast as he'd stopped the car he had it in motion again. Another of the many bridge supports came looming up. Twisting the steering wheel slightly to the right so when the road curved the car would veer off the pavement, Dean pressed down on the gas. "You were never there for Sam, or me, other than for training sessions, for what you needed."

"I prepared you for life." John snapped. "Sam will never survive on his own. He's evil a weak link."

"He'll be fine."

"Imagine how good hunting will be when you can do things like appear inside a car or throw someone across a room and choke them without touching them. You can't protect Sam, together we can."

"You don't care about either of us. You're _not_ my father. You're a goddamn, fucking demon! And I've had it with the lot of you."

Individual trees blurred into one single mesh of green and brown, red and gold. The scrape of brush along the passenger side of the car as tires left pavement and crunched over gravel made Dean shiver, and strengthened his resolve. Without him these demons had no reason to go after Sam. No Dean and Sam would safe…his own voice whispered in his head, and alone.

John laughed again, gaze focused ahead. "You'll die for sure. Me? Probably not."

Dean leaned forward, blocking out John's voice, gaze intent on the huge, solid cement bridge support coming up. He bit down on his lip.

"So, it'll be me and Sammy, cozy, cozy. Sam all alone, except for me. If not me, I have friends, they'll be sure to look after your kid brother."

Swallowing hard, wincing at how his dry throat caught on itself, Dean leaned back in the seat, gaze sliding to John. The demon smiled broadly. Dean's upper lip twitched up and he swore under his breath. Easing off the gas he yanked on the steering wheel, bringing the car back to the road.

"I knew you'd see it my way." John waved… _waved_ at him. "Time to check in on Sam, make sure he's doing good. See ya 'round, son."

Dean slammed on the brakes, car skidding to a stop before he twisted in his seat, threats and accusations about to fly out of his mouth. He was alone in the car and blissfully for now, at least, alone in his head.

-0-

"Run!" Sam dropped his cell phone and shoved Colin at Brock, a hand on each boy's shoulder, ushering them out of the room. "Go to the basement, hide. My brother's on the way. Don't come out until you hear his car."

The door to the outside at the far end of the kitchen exploded inward, the upper half torn from the hinges before it slammed against the wall. John grinned broadly at Sam. "Daddy's home." He strode through the room, casting a glance back at the ruined door. "That is just _so_ much fun. Really, Sammy, you gotta give in and give that a try. Oh, wait, it's Dean who likes to kick in doors."

"Go, now!" Sam pushed them along then turned to face down his father. "You're not going to hurt them. I won't let you hurt them."

"I don't care a whip about them. Time to get with the program, Sammy."

"No one but Dean calls me Sammy," Sam spat out, backing out of the kitchen, drawing John with him and away from the boys now in the basement. "No one."

John's lips curled up exposing white teeth and a frightening grin. Whatever tiny piece of John that he and Dean might have convinced themselves was left was nothing but their imagination Sam realized. As a human, with human feelings and care John could be one mean son-of-a-bitch when angered. This…this wasn't John. This was a demon with no humanity holding him back. All the dark John kept buried, the hate, the vengefulness that drove him as a man was let loose and up front in this _thing_. This demon.

Backing down the hall, Sam gulped in huge breaths and shoved away awareness of cold sweat oozing down his spine, how the muscles of his back and shoulders trembled, his fists clenched and unclenched. "You're not my father. He's dead. I stood with Dean and watched our father's body burn. You're not my father." Sam shouted the final words as loud as he could.

John was on him in a second, shoving him against the wall, fists bunched in Sam's collar and pulling up until Sam's toes barely skimmed the carpet. Hot, fetid breath assaulted him as John spoke. "You're the smart one, the thinker. Dean, he's nothing but a mindless soldier, but you're the one who uses his smarts, why do you think I was so hard on you? You were always better. You want your precious brother alive and well so damn much, then you will do as I say."

Sam shook his head and struggled to find his voice, "No."

Pulling Sam away from the wall, John slammed him back into it. Pain blossomed between his shoulder blades and radiated around to his sternum. "Dean simply holds you back. That's why you run; you never stick with Dean…" A vicious, shuddering laugh bubbled up from John's chest, "…but I won't abandon him." Opening his fingers he stepped back and Sam dropped to the ground.

Freed without warning Sam crumpled to the floor, wheezing and pulling in huge breaths for a second before he was able to shove away from the floor and wall sprinting into the living room where there was more room to maneuver. Turning to face John as he stalked down the hall to where Sam waited, he growled, "You couldn't hold a candle to Dean on your best day. He's a better person—"

John grasped both fists together and swung them through the air. From a room away, Sam felt the impact along his jaw. Flipped over backwards he landed face first, hands down against the floor barely in time to keep his face from hitting full force. Shoving up, wiping blood and spit off his face with the back of one hand, Sam stared John down.

"I protected those two boys," John pointed back toward the kitchen as he advanced on Sam, "you're so damn fond of. Their babysitter, she was an uncaring bitch, treated them like shit. Just like I protected you and your brother, made sure you'd always be able to defend yourselves. Demons aren't all bad, son, we just don't have to get bogged down in all that right or wrong red tape."

Sam didn't care anymore about what happened to him. All the anger, all the hate for this thing, all those years as a child of never measuring up, it all came bursting out. "You aren't half the man or the hunter Dean is. He raised me. He loves me for who I am." Rising to his full height, squaring his shoulders, Sam glared straight at John. "And he's a damn better father than you could even dream of being."

"You ungrateful little bastard!" John's arms reached out.

Sam nearly got clear in time. John clipped his side with a blow, before flicking his wrist, fingers waved in Sam's direction then away. Sam was flung over the back of the couch and onto the floor arms up to stop the couch from rolling over on him. Sam scrambled away, but before he could catch his breath or make the world right itself he was thrown into a wall, jerked away and thrown across the room into the opposite wall.

He had one defense. There was no fighting this or any other demon physically and Sam knew it. Lips hardly moving, voice barely coming out, Sam began reciting an exorcism John had taught him and punished him for not memorizing fast enough years ago. He had one line out when he was lifted off the ground and dropped harshly on his chest on the floor. Despite all the air being forced from his lungs, Sam kept wheezing out the words.

"Won't work, _Sammy_." John crossed the room and Sam tried to roll clear but was picked up and tossed into another wall. "You're a pathetic excuse of a man and hunter. Won't work if I'm not trapped. Low blow, kid."

Sam spit blood from his mouth, shoved up on his hands and continued reciting the lines, coughing and gagging on each word. Every breath burned through him, every movement of his lips sent sparks of pain screaming through his head.

"Nice try, boy." John pulled back one foot and crashed his heavy boot into Sam's ribs, toppling him over onto his back and silencing him.

The sound of the Impala's engine growling up the drive made John stop and look out the window. "Oh, hold that thought, I'll be right back. Time for the three of us to have a family meeting."

-0-

Dean steered the car off the road to the shoulder. Throwing it in park, but not cutting the engine, he threw the upper half of his body over the seat and rummaged around in the books Sam kept back there.

"Yes." He punched the air when he found the one he wanted. Next he flung himself over the seat and yanked open the glove compartment, finding the crayon stored in there.

Opening the book, Dean flipped through the pages until he found the one Sam had marked more than a year ago. He drew the image and symbols in the book onto the interior roof of the Impala. That done, he was out of the car and repeating the same action on each door, barely taking the time to admire his work beyond making sure the symbols and patterns were correct. No more unexpected demonic guests in his car. It made driving unsafe.

"Sam is so going to spend a whole day washing and waxing you for this, baby."

A second later Dean was once again speeding down the road, but this time he was heading for the Carver house, not a bridge support. He slowed down only as much as was needed to keep the car on all four wheels when he swung her into the drive. Dean's foot stomped on the brake when Brock and Colin ran right at the car. It was their quick reflexes, not Dean's that kept them from being run over by two tons of car.

"He's in there!" Colin shouted, jumping back when Dean pushed the car door open and nearly threw himself out. "You said, Sam said, your dad was dead, but that's him in there and he wants to kill Sam!"

"Sam showed us a picture of you guys and your dad, how can that be him?" Brock grabbed Colin and pulled him away from Dean.

Dean stood there for a few seconds, mouth open, brain trying frantically to catch up. He had to tell them something, but what, what the hell was he going to…then it came to him. "I told you I'm a cop. That guy in there is our uncle, my dad's twin brother. His whole family was killed and when my dad died he went nuts," Dean twirled one finger near his temple for emphasis. "His son and Sam, they look a lot a like. That's why I came with Sam, to make sure he was safe, to protect him. My uncle wants Sam to replace his own son who died."

Grabbing Brock's arm, Dean tried steering both boys into the car, "Get in, you'll be safe in here."

"No way!" Brock staggered back, breaking free.

"Listen to me. In case you haven't noticed, your kid brother and mine, they look a lot alike. Same eyes, both need a hair cut. Who do you think my wack-job uncle will want when he's done with Sam?"

It worked. Big brothers the world over were a predictable lot.

Brock shoved Colin at the car and all but picked him up and threw him inside. Sprinting to the trunk, Dean dug out a few supplies and ran back to the driver's side of the car where Brock and Colin had taken over Dean's and Sam's seats. "Okay, guys listen. My uncle is a religious freak as well as a regular nut. You take these, this is a rosary and holy water. If he comes near the car hold up the rosary and if he's close enough throw this holy water on him, he won't touch you. I promise, you're both safe in here."

Dean didn't give either boy a chance to speak, he shoved the rosary and flask of holy water into Brock's hands, slammed the car door shut and jogged around the car laying a salt line around the car before charging into the house.

The house was a shambles, furniture tossed around, holes in the walls. Yeah, typical Dad and Sam day together.

"Time to choose, Dean." John appeared in the hallway, blocking Dean's path to the living room.

"Where is Sam?"

John arched an eyebrow, half turned and held one arm out. "He's waiting for you."

Slipping past John, Dean ran into the room to find Sam on hands and knees swaying, mumbling words that sounded like an exorcism. Dropping beside his brother, Dean laid one hand on Sam's shoulder. "Sammy." Christ the kid had been beaten to a pulp, it was a wonder he was still conscious.

Sam's head lifted, his bangs dangled over his face and he looked at Dean with red, puffy eyes. A dark bruise was already forming along one cheek. Red, angry welts covered his neck and arms and a thin thread of spittle dripped from one corner of his mouth. It seemed to take Sam a few seconds, but the haze in his eyes cleared and he nodded. Easing backwards Sam settled on his knees, leaning back on his heels.

The only warning Dean had was the quick way Sam's eyes flicked to a spot over his shoulder before coming back to Dean's face. Twisting slowly on his heels, Dean shifted to the side so he was fully between Sam and John. As he turned he drew his gun. His other hand pulled a small jug of holy water from his pocket and shoved it behind him to Sam.

"I'm done playing nice with you two." John stood merely a foot from them.

"That goes both ways." Dean raised the gun and leveled his best don't-mess-with-me stare at John. "Now back the hell off. Get away from Sam. Get away from me."

"You will both come with me. Now!" John took a step forward and Dean cocked the pistol. "As if you'd shoot me."

Dean fired. John staggered back, shock and rage registering on his face. "You shot me!"

"Next one is rock salt rounds, Dad." Dean patted the second magazine he carried in his pocket.

"Time to pick your path." John snarled out, but didn't come closer.

Behind him Dean heard Sam shift closer and uncap the jug. Dean stood up slowly, never taking his eyes off of John's face. "Don't make me choose, 'cause there is no choice."

"You need to get with the program or else, both of you." This time John took a step forward. Before Dean could get off another shot, Sam shouted and lurched forward into Dean's back, nearly knocking him off balance. Waving one arm in a wide arch Sam sent a spray of holy water across Dean's shoulder to fan out across John's face and chest.

Hands slapping at his face, John sneered at them and backed away. Steam rose from his body as he batted at his eyes then rubbed them with his fists. "You'll both get in line or else." The repeated threat snarled out of John. Dean tried to suppress the shudder, but couldn't. Sam's fingers gripped his shirt and curled in tightly forcing Dean to concentrate on the slight movement of fabric across his shoulder.

The distraction Sam provided let Dean get his handgun reloaded. It was up and ready in seconds. He and John faced each other off for a few seconds, glaring but not speaking

Before Dean could react further, John turned, walked away a few steps and faded to nothing.

Behind him Sam made some odd hiccupping noise right before Dean felt more of his brother's weight against him. Tucking his gun away, Dean turned in time to slip an arm around Sam's waist and keep him from tumbling to the floor. "Hey, hey, steady. You okay?"

"Do I look okay?"

"You look just great." Dean reached up and ruffled Sam's hair, acutely aware of how he didn't duck his head away as quickly as he normally would have.

-0-

Holding onto Sam and helping him from the house and to the car seemed to make Dean feel better, so Sam saw no reason to protest. He even let Dean pile him in the back of the Impala and shove a wadded up blanket behind his head before going to the front seat and nudging Brock and Colin over far enough he could get behind the steering wheel.

The two boys looked at him wide-eyed their faces pale. Sam offered them a lopsided grin when Dean simply stated, "He's fine," before starting the car and driving away from the house.

Sam leaned back and let his eyelids drift shut, letting the movement of the car lull and sooth him as it always did. He was dimly aware of shadow and light flickering back and forth and the turns and stops the car took before coming to a stop and the engine shutting down. The creak of Dean's door made Sam pry his eyes open and sit up.

They sat in the parking lot of a large office building.

"You wait here, I'm taking them to their father." Dean opened Sam's door, reached in and patted his shoulder. "Oh, and we're going to quit."

"Nngh…no…'m coming with you."

"Sammy, you can barely move and you look like—" Dean's words faded, he straightened and rolled his eyes when Sam eased from the car. "Or, come with."

More than one person offered them curious stares as they made their way through the building and up the elevator to Jeffery Carver's office. Dean paid no attention to the secretary trying to block their path and Sam had to laugh when Brock waved at the woman and blew her a kiss.

"What the—" Carver stood up and in a few long strides was out from behind his desk and facing off Dean.

A quick glance back at Sam, Dean smirked, "Your boys are tough when it comes to tag football. Here's the deal, it was a good thing your people insisted on extra security, it seems there was a second killer. He's been handled. Your kids should maybe have a little more time with you, cause they're what's important, not your stupid job. No job is worth alienating your sons and if you keep it up one day they'll be forced to make a choice and that choice won't be you."

All at once Brock and Colin were in front of their father, replaying the story of how the psycho killer broke into their house again, how Dean and Sam took care of them and him. Carver looked from one to the other, before turning his astonished gaze on Dean and Sam. "I don't know—"

"Stow it." Dean turned away and wound his fingers around Sam's bicep. "C'mon, Sammy."

Sam dug his heels in and stayed put, making Dean stop or let go. Dean stopped and watched him. Sam rubbed the back of his neck. Saying more would simply call unneeded attention to them. He relaxed and let Dean pull him toward the door. As they reached it Sam turned back to Carver, "Oh you've got great kids."

Dean snickered and herded Sam through the door, closing it on Carver's questions.

Trailing alongside his brother out of the building and across the parking lot, Sam leaned against the car while Dean unlocked the door. Glancing down as his fingers wrapped around the handle, Sam froze.

"What?"

"You drew on the car?" Sam blinked and squinted at the car door.

Dean grinned, "Yeah, I did it for you. Which by the way, doesn't in the least get you out of cleaning most of them off and shining her up."

"Deal," Sam opened the car door and sank into the seat, pulling his legs in after him. "Can I do it in another town?"

"You betcha, Sammy." Dean grinned and pointed up. Sam laughed when he tipped his head back, following Dean's finger and saw the same symbols and pattern on the ceiling of the car. "Think we're keeping that one. No unwanted visitors while I'm driving that way, makes things hazardous."

They rode back to the motel in silence and packed their belongings. While Dean went and checked them out Sam leaned against the car, chewing his lower lip. He had to set things right with his brother or they were both going to lose each other. Sam very much did not want to lose his brother.

"You ready?" Dean appeared at his side, elbow gently nudging Sam's arm.

"I've been thinking a lot the past few days of how much you did when we were little. You took really good care of me and I've never thanked you." Sam stared at the bit of ground between his feet, it shimmered and swayed. If he looked up and at his brother he knew he'd be unable to speak. "What you did then, it's gotten me through a lot."

"Sam." Dean's voice was wet, thick and raw.

"You didn't have to do all that, you still don't, but I'm happy I have a brother like you." He eased into the car before Dean could say anything, staring at his hands in his lap while Dean quietly slid into the driver's seat.

"You know, Sam, I only have one thing that's really important to me." Dean's fingers brushed lightly over the steering wheel, but Sam understood he wasn't talking about his car.

Finally feeling he could look up and at his brother, Sam turned slightly in the seat to face Dean completely.

The sideways look Dean gave him as he turned the key and the engine cranked over and the slight sheen to Dean's eyes spoke volumes to Sam.

"You can say what you want about things with me and Dad, Sam, but I know him better than anyone else does. Better than you do, better than Bobby and he's not going to quit and give up. You and me, we're a team and we need to remember that, stick together."

Sam nodded, "We're sitting ducks without each other."

"Yeah, my point exactly. Dad knows that. He tried to split us up for a reason. We can't allow that, not again, not ever."

"I guess it's going to piss Dad off to figure out he got exactly the opposite of what he wanted."

Dean scratched at his jaw, "I think so. Another thing, he's not dad, we can't call him that or think of him like that anymore. Our dad, the one who loved us, misguided as he was, he's gone. This is John, not dad. If we forget that, we're done for." He took a deep breath and looked at Sam. "I know you think I don't trust you, but you can't be farther from wrong. You're the only person I trust. I don't always tell you things because I don't know how or what to say or I want to think it through first, but it's never because I don't trust you. Back in Montana Da—John said he wanted me to join him willingly and you'd either follow along or suffer the consequences. I didn't want to believe it or think about it and I didn't know how to say it. I'm sorry I let you go on thinking it was because I didn't trust you." Dean's words were coming out in such a rush Sam had to concentrate to make sense of them. "He tried to kill you Sam. He said he was going to kill you if you didn't follow him."

Sam sighed, "I used to think because I didn't have a normal life that I didn't have anything. I was wrong. We've got a lot. We've each got a brother who loves him, is willing to do anything for him, and that's more than everything to me. Together we're a whole lot stronger and better."

Dean nodded and put the car into gear. Sam didn't need to hear the words. Dean's actions and his face told Sam everything he needed to know. They were stronger and better with each other. The world started and stopped for each with the other. John had tried to drive them apart and in doing so had solidified them, drawn them together and shown them what they really had in one another.

Sam leaned back against the seat, sliding down so his head rested against the seatback and gazed out the window at the passing scenery as Dean drove them out of town. As long as they had each other no one would ever beat either one.

End


End file.
